


If there’s another world, he lives in bliss (if there is none, he made the best of this)

by Roccolinde



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergence, F/M, Jaime might be king but he's also grumpy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:40:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27991647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roccolinde/pseuds/Roccolinde
Summary: In another world, he goes to her the night of the feast and all is well. In this one, Podrick Payne takes a nasty blow to the head near the end of the battle and they both spend the night in his quarters, waking him frequently and all too aware that the next time he may not.When Jaime heads south with the Northern army after the battle against the dead, choices are made that alter his future, and drag Brienne along with him.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 56
Kudos: 149
Collections: JB Festive Festival Exchange 2020





	If there’s another world, he lives in bliss (if there is none, he made the best of this)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Val_Creative](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Val_Creative/gifts).



> Look, does this fic title come from Robert Burns' _Epitaph on my own Friend_ and possibly give the wrong vibe? Somewhat. Sorry.  
> I hope you enjoy this, Val_Creative! Of all the delightful ideas your suggestions prompted, somehow it was a canon AU with fairy tale style vibes that captured my heart.

In another world, he goes to her the night of the feast and all is well. In this one, Podrick Payne takes a nasty blow to the head near the end of the battle and they both spend the night in his quarters, waking him frequently and all too aware that the next time he may not. There is nothing more they can do, and are too exhausted to think of other matters.

Three days later, he goes south with the army, because there is a tyrant on the throne and a debt to be paid. When he turns back for his final glimpse of Winterfell, he thinks he spies her on the battlements; it is too far for her to see, but he waves all the same.

***

He saves the city. He saves Cersei long enough to see her executed. (They had offered the sword to him and he’d declined, uncertain that his swing would be true and even more uncertain it would be an accident if it wasn’t.) He can’t save Daenerys from an angry assassin, nor Jon Snow from his own guilt.

When the contingent arrives from the north, Brienne at Sansa’s side, he can’t help but think that perhaps it is time for someone to save him.

***

She can’t bring herself to look at him. Oh, she doesn’t look away, she’s too… _Brienne_ for that. She greets him cordially and answers his questions about Podrick’s recovery--very well, he has stayed in the north with Bran Stark because there should always be a Stark in Winterfell--but she looks _through_ him instead of _at_ him, and ends the conversation as quickly as she can and returns to the northern camp without hesitation.

(One afternoon, when they are awaiting the arrival of other houses for the summit, he shows her his entry in the Book of Brothers, where he has painstakingly recorded her knighting before the battle against the dead, and for just a moment she smiles. He carries it with him for days.)

***

The summit takes the better part of a sennight, and the whole time Jaime is watching Brienne standing at Sansa’s shoulder. Perhaps he would have seen it coming if he’d paid attention to anything else, but he is more surprised than anybody when he is brought forth as the potential king.

He watches his entire future alter in horrified silence: hero of the city and the Lannister name and his clever little brother making him sound _wise_ and _good_ and _sensible_ , and one by one the kingdoms all agree. The north is last, wanting independence but knowing that it is not the right time in the immediate aftermath of war.

“Five years,” Jaime says. “Any kingdom that wants independence can come in five years and request it.”

He doesn’t realise he’s accepted the damned crown until the words are out of his mouth. Sansa Stark looks doubtful.

“I need more than your word,” she says.

Alliances, treaties. He is bored of it already.

“I will stay,” says Brienne, the first words she has spoken the entire day. “Ser Jaime will require a lord commander, and I can ensure the north’s needs are represented. It is how I can serve you best.”

“Very well,” Jaime says, quickly, before Sansa can quibble. He’s to be king, after all. “But you won’t be lord commander, ser. You’ll be my wife.”

If he’s going to suffer, he deserves to have something in compensation.

***

There is too much to do and not enough coin for a spectacle of a wedding, so when Selwyn Tarth arrives a few days later--Jaime notices his absence only in hindsight, and thinks his first duty is to take stock of which houses have survived this past decade--he weds Brienne in a simple ceremony and feeds the displaced with what should have been their wedding feast. Brienne blushes and murmurs it is a just choice for a king, and still does not see him.

He goes to her chambers that evening and she faces the bedding much the way she’d faced the undead; unflinching and certain, but knowing her doom is at the other end. If he’d thought of kissing her, it does not last.

“I didn’t ask you to be queen idly,” he says instead. “There is no-one else I would trust to tell me how I am doing.”

“I am not your conscience, ser,” she says.

At least it is not _your grace_.

“No,” he agrees. “But I value your opinion all the same.”

The marriage remains unconsummated.

***

The coronation three moons after they wed _is_ a spectacle, comparatively, but the smallfolk cheer and the nobility are on their best behaviour, quite possibly frightened that they will be tasked with rebuilding Westeros if they speak too loudly. It is not an enviable position, but as Jaime climbs the stairs to take the throne, Brienne on his arm, he thinks that perhaps it is far from the worst. There is much good to be done.

She helps him undress that night; he’s exhausted and surly and regretting whatever madness had him agreeing, and she is the only one that does not shy away from his ill-tempered growls.

He kisses her then, a soft brush of his mouth against hers, and her hand is still on her lips as she flees the room.

***

They don’t speak of the kiss, and he would think it was merely his exhausted mind conjuring one good thing if she did not occasionally glance at him with questions in her eyes, ones he can’t quite bear to answer. If he does and he is wrong, if she is here solely for duty… It is easier not to answer at all.

She is surprised, he can see it on her face, the day she disagrees with him in public and he merely nods and changes his instructions. But the objections she raises are valid and her alternative sensible, and he is not certain that any one person is meant to rule.

Of course, she takes this as reason to disagree more and more often, and more than one servant walks into a strident argument that is whispered about in dark corners. The crippled king and his dour wife toe to toe, both of them smiling.

***

He is a good king. He doesn’t think it’s hubris to say so--if nothing else, Brienne ensures that--but he has seen so many poor rulers that he thinks he is doing well. Some of his decisions are disliked, but there is no argument that they are justly dispensed. He knows when to listen to advisors and when not, and has little interest in power for power’s sake. He is tired of war but knows that there are times it is necessary. And when he doubts himself, he needs only to look to his queen to know that he is not alone.

***

The third daughter of a minor Westerlands house comes to him seven moons after he weds, equal parts beauty and ambition. It is amusing at first, sobering when he realises that mistress of the king is the only power she has against the machinations of other men.

“I won’t bed you,” he says, “but the queen is in need of a companion.”

By the end of the year, Brienne’s ladies number in the dozens.

***

Sansa Stark writes to Brienne, and whatever words are on the parchment have Brienne grasping the hilt of Oathkeeper with white knuckles.

“Go, then,” he says. “You’ll only fret and pine if you stay here, and the north is our kingdom for a little while longer.”

She is gone so long that he thinks perhaps she will never return, and he doesn’t know what to say when the raven finally comes, announcing that she is coming home.

 _Home_.

***

There is a celebration when she returns; for all the smallfolk grumble and the nobility scheme, Brienne is known to be just and not easily swayed, and is respected for it. The stories of her deeds have spread--Jaime suspects he has his brother to thank for that, though none of it is untrue--and with it comes a certain level of love.

He doesn’t care. She rides into the Red Keep still wearing the armour he’d gifted her years ago, and when she dismounts and comes close it takes all his willpower not to pull her close, smell the scent of sweat and horse and fresh air captured in the crook of her neck. King’s Landing has their queen home, but he has Brienne.

***

He takes her to the shore, the day after her return, because he knows it reminds her of home. It is a quiet place and he has left strict instructions not to be disturbed, and her hand slides into his as they pick their way down to the water.

“Surely, ser, there is much to attend to,” she protests, but there is a yearning in her posture that was not there before she left, or perhaps he simply hadn’t seen.

“Much,” he agrees, “but none as important as this.”

There is food, and peace, and words long-awaited. She tastes like the sun when she finally kisses him, like heaven between her thighs.

In another world, he goes to her the night of the feast. In this one it takes a little longer. All is well.


End file.
